The Eden Tree

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Linn resolved not to laugh. She had to get used to his colorful speech; what passed for wit at home was normal conversation here.

  “Mr. Fitzgibbon told me your pen name.”

  His eyes narrowed, watching her closely for the effect of the revelation. Then he sighed. “Larry Fitz should shut his mouth. He’ll soon be catching flies.”

  “It’s not a secret, is it? Don’t the people around here know?”

  “Oh, aye, they know. But we’re not much impressed with writers here, Linn. They grow wild like the shamrocks. We’ve more writers than potatoes and we’ve got a lot of potatoes.”

  “Not writers like you. The Eden Tree is my favorite book of poetry. I think it’s wonderful.”

  He didn’t answer for a moment and when he did his voice was very quiet. “Thank you,” he said. “That’s a fine compliment and I appreciate it.”

  Linn felt his eyes on her, moving down from her face to her throat and her breasts, scorching through the cloth. She couldn’t look at him.

  “What are you thinking?” she whispered.

  “I’m thinking I should have made love to you last night when I had the chance,” he answered evenly.

  The bartender appeared at the booth. “Will you have another, Conchubor?” he asked Con.

  “I will.” He looked at Linn.

  She shook her head and the barkeep walked away. “What did he call you?” she asked Con.

  “Conchubor,” he answered. “It’s my name in Gaelic.” It was pronounced “Con-a-hoor.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Desire.” Con’s voice caressed the word.

  Linn closed her eyes. She was definitely losing control of this conversation.

  The bartender returned with Con’s drink and paused to look at Linn. “So you’re Dermot’s granddaughter,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re a long way from home,” he observed.

  Linn smiled at him. “I don’t know about that. From the moment I set foot in Ireland I felt as if I belonged here.”

  “And so you do,” the bartender answered kindly, glancing at Con. He winked and ambled back to the bar.

  “Is that true?” Con asked. “What you said to him?”

  “Yes. All my life I’ve had a feeling of…I don’t know…displacement. The Germans have a word for it. Weltschmerz. It means—”

  “I know what it means,” Con interrupted softly. “Homesickness for a place you have never seen.”

  The poet in him had put it very well. “Exactly. And now I know what I’ve been homesick for…this place.”

  “And me?” he asked evenly.

  The silence was deafening. Linn broke it and changed the subject by saying brightly, “Bridie told me that you were fighting in the North.”

  “I was.”

  “But you came home.”

  His gaze was direct, challenging. “I could bear it no longer.”

  “It must have been terrible.”

  “It was all of that and more.”

  “And the reason why you can’t sleep.”

  He looked away. “I close my eyes and see the pavements running blood, hear the bombs exploding.” He took a healthy slug of his drink. “It’s easier not to sleep.”

  “Was it worth it?” Linn asked.

  He eyed her speculatively. When he spoke he didn’t answer her question. Instead he said, “You are Irish and sympathize with those who wish to be independent?”

  Linn gazed at him levelly and answered, “I am American and sympathize with those who wish to be free.”

  He smiled, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “You’ve been spending too much time with Larry Fitz. It seems his fancy dancing is a catching disease.”

  “I had it before I met Larry Fitzgibbon, Con.”

  “That I can believe,” Con answered dryly.

  “You won’t go back to the North?” Linn asked, backtracking.

  He shook his head. “I’m known now. I’ve been told that it would be unwise for me to return. No, I’m out of that life. Well out of it.”

  “But you’re wanted?”

  He put his head to one side and regarded her archly. “You’ve been watching too many of your Western films: Wanted—Dead or Alive. I’m considered an undesirable, which means my presence is not desired.”

  “Bridie told me that you were wounded.”

  “Bridie told you a great deal.”

  “I’m afraid I asked her,” Linn admitted, not wanting Bridie to take the rap for Linn’s curiosity.

  “Did you now?”

  “Yes. Where were you hurt?”

  Con took her hand and pulled it under the table, placing it on his thigh. Linn resisted the impulse to snatch her hand back and left it there. The heat of his body seared through the denim cloth, branding her palm. “Just there,” he murmured.

  Linn stood abruptly, sloshing the remainder of her stout. “I’d better go,” she said lamely. “It’s getting late.” She didn’t wait for him to answer but walked quickly to the door, feeling all eyes on her as she passed. She heard Con get up and drop some change on the table as he left.

  “Wait a bit,” he called after her, catching up to her just outside the door. His fingers closed around her upper arms, holding her fast. “Don’t run from me.” She could feel his warm breath stirring her hair.

  “Connor, please,” she said helplessly. She didn’t even know what she was pleading for—mercy, perhaps?

  “I’ll not hurt you,” he murmured. “Surely you know I’ll not hurt you.” He turned her around to face him and she glanced down, unwilling to meet his eyes.

  “None of that, now,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

  Linn did so. His eyes glittered like aquamarines in the failing light.

  “Will you walk with me?” he asked.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Up to Cool Na Grena, above the town. It’s a smashing view from there.”

  “All right, Con.”

  He smiled and Linn didn’t resist when he took her hand. Who was she fighting anyway, Con or herself?

  The sun had set and it was almost dark. Dusk shrouded everything in gray shadow and the first stars glowed like tiny candles in the sky. A crescent moon was rising, barely visible against the clouds that drifted across it, gathering into thunderheads. It would rain tonight.

  Con led her to a path that wound up the mountain. The going was easy; he was surefooted and knew the way. Linn clung to his hand, glancing at him occasionally, trying to read his thoughts. He was absorbed, quiet.

  “What does Cool Na Grena mean?” she asked, to break the silence.

  “A Place in the Sun,” he answered. “It’s a natural clearing amidst the trees.” He stopped walking and brought her up short. They were at a juncture in the path where two forks led upward into the woods. “Will you stop awhile in Bally?” he asked. “Do you plan to stay?”

  Linn nodded. “I don’t know what my long range plans are; I’ll have to work them out later. I only know that I wanted to get here as soon as possible.” Linn dropped his hand and moved away toward a large stone at the edge of the wood. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me to find someplace where I belong. Losing my father has made me feel so…lonely. Homeless. I hardly knew that Ildathach existed. My father never discussed it. But as soon as Mr. Fitzgibbon contacted me I had to come here. It was like the answer to a prayer.”

  Con studied her for some sign of dissembling. He found none. “You know nothing of your father’s reasons for going to America, then?” he asked directly.

  “No. Only that he split with my grandfather and they never communicated after he left. It was a taboo subject in our house. He wouldn’t talk about it and I knew better than to ask any questions.”

  Con absorbed this without comment. It was true; she was unaware of her father’s past. He didn’t quite know how to react to this realization. He couldn’t quell entirely his resentment of her family and of her presence on Ildathach
, but it was constantly at war with his overpowering desire for her. And desire was winning easily.

  Linn glanced over at him. He was standing with his arms folded, regarding her thoughtfully. She turned her head, determined not to stare. She couldn’t look at him without wanting to touch him. She shoved her hands into the pocket of her skirt, as if to prevent the thought from transforming itself into action. “What is this rock?” she asked, turning to a boulder that looked like some kind of landmark.

  “A Druid stone,” Con replied, coming to stand next to it. He put his palm flat on the surface of the gray slab. “Ireland wasn’t converted to Christianity until the fifth century. This is called a sarsen. It was used by the ancient Celts in pagan rites. It’s very old.”

  “Do you believe those stories of magic spells, bloody sacrifices?” Linn asked.

  Con ran a forefinger along a vein in the rock. “It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not. They were a fierce, proud people and they left their mark on the land.” He glanced up at the crescent moon. “They had a spirit full of incantation.”

  And so do you, Connor Clay, Linn thought. They had left their mark on their descendants as well.

  Con extended his hand to Linn again. “Come along. It’s just a little further now.”

  They took the fork leading up to the left. As promised, after a short distance they came to an open field where the ruins of a temple took on an eerie quality in the moonlight. Only a few columns were left standing; the rest of the structure had collapsed into a heap of rubble.

  “It looks Roman,” Linn breathed, awed.

  “It is. They built it after their invasion and left it behind. The local story is that Saint Patrick blasted it for a heathen house of worship on his way through, but I think it more likely fell down from lack of attention.”

  “The Romans invaded Ireland?”

  Con snorted. “The Romans, the Vikings, the Danes, the Gauls, the Germans, you name it. Anybody who could march steadily or float a boat. We have here what you might call a bad location. The intrepid navigators out seeking a path to the New World—or merely some plunder for the old one— sort of crashed into us on the trip. We’re in the way, you see.”

  Linn laughed delightedly. He picked up a pebble and tossed it at the temple. “Think I’m amusing, do you?” he asked, with an undertone of irony. “It wouldn’t be the first time I provided amusement for an American lady.”

  Linn was puzzled by his tone. Now what on earth did that mean? He was driving her crazy with his cryptic remarks but she knew already that pressing him for details would only make him more reserved. Anything he told her would have to be his idea.

  Con walked to the edge of the precipice that bordered the clearing. “Come and see,” he said.

  Linn joined him and looked down from the height. The town of Ballykinnon was spread below them, the houses and the fields, the church tower and the ribbon of roads all in miniature. The lights looked like the twinkling of fireflies.

  “Oh, Con, it’s beautiful.”

  “Aye, it is.” He turned to look at her. “Is your full name Linda?” he inquired. “I recall that was a popular name in the States.”

  “Aislinn,” Linn answered. “My father said that it meant a dream or a vision.”

  Con took her face between his hands. “So you looked to me last night,” he said huskily. “The embodiment of every fantasy I ever had.”

  Linn gazed back into his beautiful eyes, trying to maintain her sense of reality in this fairytale setting with this storybook man. Was he really so different from other men she’d known? He seemed so. The false, sophisticated bar dwellers, the stuffy academics, all the men from the past five years receded from her mind.

  “Do you recall the flyleaf poem from The Eden Tree?” Con asked, tracing her lips with his thumb. A cloud passed over the moon and shadowed his features. “It was called ‘To My Unknown Lady.’”

  “I remember.”

  Con recited softly:

  “So a woman made of moonlight, with amber hair

  Will save me, and enslave me, but only if I dare

  To join the dance

  To take a chance

  And love...”

  Linn closed her eyes. Reality receded further into blackness.

  “You see the way of it,” Con whispered. His lips were almost touching hers. “I described you before I ever met you. Save me, Aislinn. Will you save me?”

  The sound of distant thunder boomed in Linn’s ears as Con kissed her. His embrace was so tender and so gentle that she felt the sting of tears behind her eyelids. Why should this man affect her so much? He was a stranger and yet he was not. The previous night had been a searing introduction to the taut strength of his body, the taste of his mouth, the softness of his hair. People she’d seen every day, year after year, hardly left an image in her mind. But Connor was already impressed upon her senses so indelibly that Linn knew she could never forget him.

  Con moved his mouth to her neck. “God, I love the scent of your hair, your skin,” he said thickly. “I could find you in the dark, my lady.”

  His tone told her that the mocking salutation had become a term of endearment. When he turned his head and sought her lips again she responded eagerly, clinging to him. Con’s gentleness fled in a surge of mounting passion. He ran his hands over her body, leaving a trail of fire where he touched. Linn was weak with hunger; her lifelong fast had not prepared her for this sudden banquet. If Con had released her she would have fallen.

  The wind whipped through the surrounding trees, and lightning illuminated the heavens. Thunder cracked overhead, much closer now. Linn hesitated at the noise but Con was oblivious. He lifted her against him, molding her to his hard contours. His body heat was rising; he was caught in the vortex of male need and he was carrying Linn into the whirlpool with him. In a moment she would drown.

  Linn pulled away from him forcefully. He followed after her, blindly.

  “Con, the storm is coming,” Linn moaned feebly.

  He bent and slipped an arm underneath her knees, picking her up swiftly.

  “Aislinn,” he rasped in her ear, his hoarse voice barely perceptible over the rising wind, “the storm is already here.”

  He walked with her in his arms to the stand of trees.

  Chapter 3

  Con carried Linn to a small copse where the interlocking branches above their heads, dense with foliage, protected them from the falling rain. Con’s face was wet with scattered droplets, his skin fiery hot as he pressed his lips into the hollow of Linn’s shoulder, lowering her gently to the ground. He pinned her the instant she was prone. She welcomed his weight, caressing him wherever she could reach with eager, searching hands.

  “Aislinn,” he breathed, drawing her knees up to settle himself more closely against her. Linn arched to meet him, moaning softly at the sensation of aching need that overwhelmed her to the point of pain. She shifted restlessly, whimpering in protest when he pushed himself off her with one hand, the other going to the neck of her blouse.

  “Shh, shh,” he soothed, gentling her with his voice, his touch. He murmured something she didn’t understand as he unbuttoned her shirt, opening the front catch of her lacy bra with a nimble forefinger. His breath stopped in his throat as he looked his fill, his parted lips bearing the faint stain of her lipstick. Then he gathered her to him, rubbing his cheek luxuriously over her silky skin.

  “The memory of you like this robbed me of sleep all the night,” Con said huskily. “So sweet, so soft, as smooth as milk. I had the taste of you in my mouth and I couldn’t forget it. You’re a witch, Aislinn. You cast a spell on me in the moonlight.”

  “If I did it bewitched us both,” Linn answered, stroking his hair as his mouth moved over her breasts. He paused, using his tongue, and she gasped, clutching him tighter.

  He moaned, cradling her in his arms, fusing her hips to his. “Share your body with me,” he panted. “Give me what I should have had last night.”

  Th
e reference to the previous evening made Linn stiffen and Con sensed the change immediately. His hold loosened and he raised his head.

  “What?” he murmured, still drugged with passion. The screen of his lashes lifted and his eyes, which promised limitless sensual delights, made Linn want to abandon all caution and do as he asked. He was so close above her that his blue gaze seemed to fill the world. Linn turned her head away from its heat.

  “You want me,” he urged. “What’s amiss?”

  Linn swallowed. “Con, I can’t do this,” she said miserably.

  He didn’t answer. The patter of raindrops on the leaves above them was drowned in a peal of thunder. Linn pressed her face into his shoulder, feeling the mist drift down and enclose them in a soft embrace. The storm was passing, but not for Linn and this ardent, impatient man.

  “And why not?” he finally said, his voice calm, deliberately controlled. But the tension in his body had not relaxed; he was wound as tightly as a steel cable.

  Linn moved to sit up and Con released her. When she clutched her clothes to her bosom awkwardly he reached over and expertly hooked her bra, settling the straps back on her shoulders neatly. Linn rebuttoned her blouse with shaking fingers, noting unhappily that he was very familiar with women’s apparel.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” she began.

  “Try,” he responded tightly.

  He was angry and hurt, but too restrained to show it. It was amazing how well he could master his feelings. Linn wished that she had such command of hers. She pressed her hands to her flaming cheeks, trying to think of a way to make him understand. She was tongue tied and he was so good with words.

  “I’ve been here little more than a day,” she said, struggling, “and if I haven’t been crying, I’ve been”— she gestured helplessly, close to tears yet again—“rolling around in the grass with you.” She covered her mouth with her hand, shaking her head helplessly. “We’ve just met, we don’t even know each other.” She gulped and added, whispering, “I hardly recognize my own behavior.”